Not bonbons this go-round. No, no, no. Believe we've had, so to speak, “our fill” in that arena. Made me a little queasy just thinking about Mary Anne downing 14 ounces of cocoa and sucrose and what all, non-stop. Kind of makes my teeth hurt. [Last week’s story for those of you reading on Substack.]
Nor are we going to make the completely obvious plot move to dentistry suggested by Harrison's song and my suddenly aching teeth. That would seem so lame at this point, some kind of attempt to fashion an artsier assemblage1 than “Savoy Truffle?”
Puh-leez!
We are going to turn to “fillings in,” and find that we have a wide range from which to select. For one example I could enjoy a little fun at your expense and expect you to “fill in the blanks.” [Letting myself off the hook regarding character and plot. A very, very tempting thought for a busy author!]
Let's see. Oh, right. Back on page 15 [in the print edition] we referenced “a story for another day.” Here we go.
As for the raccoons, well you would likely feel ________
to learn that they got into ___ ____ and _____ ___ so Susan2 decided the only way forward was to use a Havahart® trap and move some of them to ___ _____ ______. Little did she suspect that instead of the preferred prey she would trap a _____. Now, that was a problem! A tetchy, tetchy problem.
But that was far from the _____ __ __ ___ ___.
That reminds me of something else that happened that same week which is much funnier. [You know me and memory and telling the truth.]
During the time frame when Susan set out to catch raccoons but ended up catching a skunk and having to get it out of the trap without getting dosed (which she managed, to her great good fortune) she trapped herself!
Naked!
If nakedness doesn't make a reader sit up and pay attention, well, I really don't know what would.
Susan was alone in the woods. Our neighbor, Larry, and I had headed to an island off the coast of Maine for a week, to go fishing and do some repairs on his sister's cottage. In the evenings I was wrapping up the third draft of my all-too-easily-forgotten novel, Illiamna.
Forgotten because unseen by the world. It still calls to me from a cardboard box underneath my desk, crying out for a re-write to which I reply, “Later.”
[Which, like equal pay for women and racial justice as described by MLK Jr. in “Letter from Birmingham Jail,” basically means “Never.”]
[The world still begs for a majestic and powerful novel that includes illicit dogfighting in Florida, domestic violence artfully punished, a salmon fishery and plaisir mining in Alaska, an improbable love affair and a hunting accident resulting in … but nope, sorry, no spoilers here.]
I think that's explanation enough for why Susan was alone in the forest, and inclined toward nudity. Taking it all off is a familiar idea, seems to me. Have any among you not skinny-dipped? And if so, do you have a wrinkled clue what you have missed out on?
It was a sunny July day in woodland New Hampshire and a patch of dry weather had largely driven the usual swarms of black flies and mosquitoes to ground, at least around noon. Susan decided to wash Buckwheat.3 Being far from public view and having decided that the sun would feel good everywhere, she got naked.4 Why not? It's a free country!
Who are you to judge? (You non-skinny-dippers, you.)
So in short order she and the car were sudsy and she rinsed first herself then the auto off with the hose,.
That's when she noticed that the drains from the vents in front of the windshield were clogged. They had FILLED IN5 with leaf mould or airborne dirt and detritus. Being of a mechanical mind-set she knew there were drain tubes under the dash.
So Susan ran inside for a dish pan, opened the passenger door and leaned in, placed the pan under the outlet, pulled the rubber hose off the fitting and … nothing.
What comes next is the funny part. So, no coffee, okay?
You can easily understand that it wasn't possible to look up into the aperture. It was awkward enough just bending over the passenger seat to get at the problem. But, clearly, there was some manner of blockage.
What to do?
The drain opening looked to be about the size of her pinky.
It was.
She poked her little finger in as far as it would reach.
And … __ ___ _____!6
1 Oui, Fr.
2 Susan is about 17 years past her expiration date, so she isn't present to be embarrassed by the story about to be told.
3 Recall I mentioned the 1965 VW Squareback on page 19. [In the print edition. This is in the first story in this Substack series for you who are intellectually curious.]
4 If this were a YouTube® video for guys she would be in a bikini, but this is not that. It is a true story from long before YouTube® was a thing.
5 See? I never mislead my readers. (Or, at least, not much.)
6 Were you able to finish the story? C'mon, what do you think might have happened? A woman alone in the woods? Naked? With her pinky inserted into the drain aperture of a 1965 VW Type III?
At this point we are just two stories from the conclusion of our exploration of Self-Evident. After that, drum roll, only paid subscribers will get weekly stories from the next book in the series. Unpaid subscribers will only be allowed one, monthly, peek inside my head. So, here world, I pass you like an orange to a child, do what you will.